


Five Surprises Steve Has after Waking Up, and One Surprise He Has For His Team

by seikaitsukimizu



Series: Strike Team Delta AU [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hydra (Marvel), POV Steve Rogers, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6828337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seikaitsukimizu/pseuds/seikaitsukimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Winter Soldier suffered a cognitive re-calibration years ago, and it was all because of Hawkeye? And what if said Soldier was there when his best friend woke up from the ice? What if a frozen super soldier didn't have to face this strange future all by his lonesome? </p>
<p>AKA</p>
<p>Steve Rogers wakes up and Bucky Barnes is there to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Surprises Steve Has after Waking Up, and One Surprise He Has For His Team

Waking up is a shock. Discovering that the Bucky sitting beside his bed, alive and smirking and missing an arm, is actually _real_ almost breaks him. The serum has given him a perfect memory, but he has no idea what else happened that day. All he can remember is crying and holding his lost friend and every single sense confirming that it’s not a dream, it’s not a trick, it’s _Bucky._

He ends up in bed again somehow, and when he wakes up the second time, Bucky’s asleep in the same bed, the exhaustion plain on his features. Steve devotes five minutes to watching his face before his gaze slides over to the shoulder and stump that used to belong to his friend’s arm. He lost an arm, all because Steve didn’t go back to search for him, didn’t even think he could survive the fall…

There’s a part of his mind suspiciously pointing out he _shouldn’t_ have survived the fall, but he’s ignoring that voice, because he wants to be happy, wants this to be real.

Finally, he tilts his head up enough to spy the man sitting in the chair. He’s wearing a uniform that Steve doesn’t recognize, black pants with extra pockets he’s seen worn by paratroopers and a shirt that barely conceals the muscles of his arms. His hair is short and messy, and even though he’s staring out the window, Steve is one-hundred percent certain he’s aware of every movement in the room.

A certainty that’s confirmed when the stranger tilts his head in a half nod. “Hey, Captain. Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, trying not to wake Bucky.

“Clint Barton.”

“Steve Rogers.”

“I know. A certain jerk never stops talking about you.”

There’s something off about his speech. He’s definitely not from Brooklyn or New York. There’s an accent that reminds him of his time performing in the midwest, but that’s not it. It’s a cadence, or maybe the words themselves.

Still, Steve smiles. “He talks about me?”

“A lot.” Barton shifts in his seat so he’s no longer staring out the window. “I found him, you know.”

“You did? How was…” There’s so many questions. How did Bucky survive? Why was his arm lost? Why was the man out in the middle of nowhere?

“I was on a separate mission and there he was.” Barton gives him a consoling look. “He had some amnesia for a while, but he got better.”

Something in Steve’s chest twists at that. Amnesia. He wasn’t there when Bucky _really_ needed him. “Thank you,” he offers sincerely, “for being there when I...I…”

The soldier gives him another reassuring smile, then turns to look out the window again.

Steve watches his profile, then takes in the room. The radio is off, which makes sense with them now asleep, but there’s no nurse that’s come in to check on them. The lamps are on even though it’s daylight, which is such a waste of electricity he can’t believe the hospital is doing it.

The linens making up the sheets and blanket are soft. Too soft. He’s been in too many hospital beds to not know the too-cleaned worn thin cotton sheets by heart. These...these are a much finer quality. Another wasteful detail that just stands out starkly in his mind.

There’s also, now that he’s concentrating, an unfamiliar buzz in the background, something that’s not the electricity in the lights or the radio. It’s too faint to pinpoint, but it’s there, almost constant. He squints, trying to focus on it, but the breeze picks up outside and the billowing curtains drown it out momentarily.

It’s almost like the sound two-way radios make between bouts of communication. Except there’s nothing like that in here, and that’s definitely not something easy to hide.

Keeping the suspicion out of his voice, he finally asks, “So how’s the war?”

That seems to surprise the man, the way he jumps in his seat. He blinks, like the question is ridiculous. The buzzing gets briefly louder. “We won,” he says too loudly, then shakes his head. “Sorry, we won. Hitler took his own life when we attacked Berlin.”

Steve parses the sentence, breaks down Barton’s tones. He’s telling the truth, but not the whole truth. There’s also a hint of wariness in his eyes, like a man about to approach a spooked horse. And Steve can only think of one reason that might be, given the situation.

He takes a deep breath. “How long...how long was I...asleep?” Barton bites his lip and turns away. That alone is answer enough, but Steve pushes himself up so he can demand more forcefully, “How long?”

“Long time, punk,” Bucky answers drowsily, blinking slowly up at him. “Years.”

_Years._ Steve stares at Bucky, then looks back up at Barton, who shrugs helplessly then nods.

“Years…” His lungs seize, like they used to when he had asthma attacks. “Bucky...Buck, how long?”

Fully awake now, Bucky sits up as well and meets Steve’s eyes. The background buzzing speeds up as he stands and shoves at Steve until he’s off the bed, too.

“Barnes,” Barton says cautiously.

The buzzing sound has gone utterly silent. Bucky continues to stare at him. Steve takes a deep breath and notices, for the first time, the fresh air is _too_ fresh. It sounds like a busy day in New York out the window, but the quality of the air is higher, purer, more like the mountains than the city. Except it has a metallic, artificial quality to it.

They’re inside. They’re in a building _inside_ a building. He knows the SSR is into hiding places like that, but why would they need to create the illusion that he has a window into the city? If they’re  even _in_ the city?

“Bucky,” Steve grips the man’s hand, “where are we?”

“New York.” The reply is immediate, but there’s something off about it, like Bucky’s fighting himself. He exchanges a look with Clint, who grimaces, then gets up as well.

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand, then pulls him towards the door. Since he only has the one hand, Steve reaches forward to open it.

A man in a suit stands on the other side. It brings Steve up short but Bucky just stares the stranger down. There’s a tension there, something that has Steve bracing himself, getting ready to fight, when the stranger says, “You’re sure?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just takes a deliberate step forward. Steve’s never seen his friend be so...so menacing. After a heavy minute, the besuited man stands aside and with a little tug Bucky is leading Steve out of the hospital room into a corridor that...that ends in a paper facade that he shoulders through easily.

There’s the buzzing noise again, but this time it’s overlaid with the suit’s voice going, “Continue lockdown, but clear the area.”

Steve twists his head over his shoulder and sees a small black device in the man’s ear. What most likely is a radio device. Smaller than anything Howard’s ever dreamed up. “Bucky-”

“Almost there, Steve.” Behind the facade is a wide hallway that seems to go endlessly in both directions, but his friend leads him with certainty northward.

He knows why a minute later when he sees the sun shining over the New York skyline from floor-to-ceiling windows. From the building outlines he can tell they’re near Times Square, and high up, higher than any buildings the SSR is supposed to have.

Without thinking he lets go of Bucky’s hand to approach the expansive view, presses his palm against the glass and stares, tears streaming out at the light but also, also because he thought he’d _never_ see his home again.

And that’s when he realizes he isn’t seeing his home. It’s the New York skyline, but there are more buildings, some sleek and seemingly made of reflective glass. There are billboards that aren’t papered over, but appear to be _moving_. There are lights with impossible colors and when he looks down, so far down the streets are dark and different and there’s so many vehicles. Too many and too different to have appeared in the city over a couple of _years._

Swallowing thickly but unable to look away, he whispers, “Buck...how...how long?”

“Nearly seventy years,” the suited man answers him. “It’s the twenty-first century, Captain Rogers.”

Seventy years. _Seventy_ _years_. His knees give out and he slides to the floor. His entire body is trembling and when he feels Bucky sit beside him his mind screams that it’s a lie, it’s all a _lie_ and his friend is _dead_ and this...this is hell.

“I know, Stevie,” Bucky--impossible, _impossible_ to be here Bucky--says quietly, terribly. “I know.”

(“So where,” Steve asks later, when he’s still overwhelmed but no longer consumed by the knowledge of _the future_ , “are all the flying cars?”

Bucky snorts at him, then, he turns a sly eye to the suit, a man named Phil Coulson.

Coulson merely raises an eyebrow. “You know she’s off limits, Barnes. Especially after Omaha.”

At Steve’s confused look, Barton smirks and tells him quietly, “Ignore them. They’re always fighting over Lola.”

“Must be a hell of a lady,” Steve replies just as softly, which results in Barton cracking up and the two other men turning to stare at them.

_Bucky’s friends_ , Steve thinks, _are weird._ )

* * *

It takes nearly a month before Coulson lets him out of the sterile, limited building he woke up in. He could break out easily enough. Hell, he’s planned no less than half a dozen escapes since that first day. But the look in Bucky’s eyes, the haunted gaze he gets whenever he suspects Steve’s thoughts...it’s enough to keep him in line, to follow SSR’s-- _SHIELD_ , he reminds himself; _it’s SHIELD now_ \--directives.

He learns a lot in that time. About winning the war. About Hiroshima and Nagasaki, about Korea and the Middle East, about how he stopped one madman only for others to keep cropping up with weapons as bad--worse even, than the one he put in the ocean. He also learns about the UN, about the Women’s Movement, Civil Rights, the space race including a moon landing, and the tech revolution.

It’s all astonishing, too much really. He spends a lot of time in the gym pounding the hell out of punching bag after punching bag. Bucky just watches, spending a lot of time on the treadmill and not asking anything, not saying anything. It’s as if he understands.

_He probably does_ , Steve thinks, since he apparently went through something similar. He still won’t say how he’s here, only that it also involved some time in the ice, and something that was done to him while in the hands of Hydra. It’s obviously painful, and frankly, Steve isn’t up to hearing about more pain just yet. Soon, so soon, but not yet.

His first foray out into the world, though, has him walking to Time’s Square and just...staring, gape-mouthed at everything. He must stand there spinning for a half hour, maybe longer. Bucky’s there with him, amused and indulging. Clint is nearby, Steve knows, and he’s peripherally aware of at least a dozen plainclothes agents all around. But it’s...it’s just so amazing.

His first foray into SHIELD’s main New York office is, unfortunately, exceptionally memorable as well, but for all the wrong reasons. The leader of SHIELD, Fury, had invited him a month ago. It’s his first chance to take him up on the offer, and while Coulson will be conducting the actual tour, he’s looking forward to seeing what the SSR has morphed into.

Barton and Bucky have been taunting each other all morning, and before he knows it the two have challenged each other to a race up the stairwells. Though, from what he’s seen of Barton, it’ll be less a straightforward run and more likely involve leaping up railings and possibly climbing walls. It’s the first time he’s seen Bucky so relaxed in a while, though, so with a brief nod that he can find the top floor himself, he’s on his own and calling for an elevator all by himself.

He would take the stairs, but he’s well aware that Bucky, and probably Barton, aren’t above using him in their antics.

He’s admiring the marble and wondering if he can capture the architecture in a drawing when the doors open and he steps in. A second later he hears a, “Hold the doors,” and sticks his leg out, keeping the doors open. A man slides in a second later. He’s well-built, with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow on his chin. He’s wearing what Barton has explained is a tac suit, all black with guns and at least four knives.

“Thanks, man.” The stranger eyes Steve up and down. “Captain Rogers?”

Steve nods, not at all surprised that his return has been announced internally.

Holding out a hand, the man says, “Agent Rumlow. I was hoping to meet you today.” The doors close as Steve shakes his hand.

“Are you a fan?” Steve uses his other hand to hit the fortieth floor as he asks. Coulson is a fan, enough of one that he has trading cards that he asked Steve to sign. He really hopes that’s not a common trait among SHIELD agents.

“Not really.” Rumlow pushes the button for the thirty-sixth floor. “Just wanted a chance to do this.”

Steve is about to ask what when he finds a knife in his stomach. It stuns him. He’s completely unprepared for a SHIELD agent to try and murder him. His muscles though, despite all the time on the ice, remember to fight, to defend himself. He doesn’t see the second blade coming towards him, but as it slices across his raised left arm. It brings him back to the situation and he moves immediately.

His muscles scream as he charges Rumlow, shoving him against elevator wall. The man lets out a shock of breath, then is using his free hand to reach for his holster even as he uses the knife to try and slice at his face. Steve weaves back, but uses the momentum to grab the wrist and twist, breaking Rumlow’s wrist and making him drop the weapon.

Which is when the gun is drawn and Steve uses his reflexes, even as they start to slow, to grab the falling knife and swipe at the man’s other hand. Not aiming to sever it, but enough for Rumlow to flinch. Steve swivels backward and kicks the gun from the man’s hand and it bounces with a light metallic ping that’s almost familiar.

In retaliation, Rumlow knees him in the stomach.

It’s enough to make Steve’s vision go white and elicit a shout from him. He forces himself to push through the pain, swallows the wave of blood flooding his throat, and rolls forward. That ping was enough for Steve to know where the gun fell, and he savagely backhands Rumlow so he can snatch the weapon and fire off a shot.

It’s not a good shot. It’s a terrible shot, but it catches Rumlow in the leg. The man half-swears, and Steve hears another clang against floor. He blinks, and finds that Rumlow has dropped a bloody knife. His head is light, and he feels the blood pooling out of his belly turning his legs wobbly.

He’s not going to surrender, though. It’s almost at Rumlow’s floor. The man seems to realize it, and sneers at Steve. Then he slams his elbow into the emergency stop button, making the entire car jerk. Steve hauls himself back towards the corner, but his grip on the weapon is slipping.

Rumlow’s picks up the bloody knife and is diving for him, and though black spots are appearing, Steve twists his grip on the gun and uses it to knock the attack away before snapping back his arm with all his might to pistol-whip the man in the temple. The knife falls into Steve’s lap and Rumlow half falls on him. When when Steve blinks he suddenly finds a hand on his throat.

There’s blood over the gun, and his fingers are too clumsy to correct it. So even as he tries to pry off the choking arm with one hand, he uses the other to blindly hit Rumlow in the legs. Somewhere, he knows there’s a bullet wound he can aggravate, if he could just concentrate, just see…

Rumlow leans forward and, in a vicious whisper, says, “Hail Hydra.”

Steve blacks out for a second because when his muddled senses refocus, there’s a terrible rending sound of metal on metal, and then the elevator doors are ripped open and a metal arm snatches Rumlow by the scruff only to drag him off Steve and throw him down the hall.

A metal arm attached to Bucky.

Bucky, who’s looking not panicked, but has deadened eyes and a homicidal frown on his face. He takes one look at Steve before pivoting and taking off after where he tossed Rumlow.

Steve tries to call after him, to ask what’s going on, who _is_ that with Bucky’s face, but Barton’s beside him and pushing something into his stomach that has him gasping and dropping the gun and then passing out at the pain.

When he wakes up, he’s in a medical facility, and he feels more like a patchwork person than a supersoldier. Whatever drugs he’s on are strong enough to make the room fuzzy at the edges, but not enough to hide Bucky sitting beside him, the metal arm present but the terrifyingly strange face gone.

“I leave your ass alone for two seconds...” There’s a trace of desperation in his tone.

“Hydra,” Steve is able to squeak out. Bucky looks stunned, so Steve swallows past the lump and forces out, “He said…Hail-”

“Hydra,” Bucky finishes, looking murderous. He turns away and shuts his eyes, lets out a long breath. “Fuck.”

“Lan…” Steve coughs, then gags because that hurts like hell.

Bucky’s metal hand holds up a cup with a straw and Steve takes two sips before his gaze rests on the strange construct. Bucky pulls it away, then rolls his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. It’s…” He looks down. “They did that to me. Hydra. They made it, forced it on me. I...didn’t want you to freak out, so I’ve kept it off.”

Hydra. Hydra cut off Bucky’s arm to give him a...a metal limb able to tear through steel doors. “Why,” he forces out.

Bucky’s hands both clench into fists. “They wanted a weapon.” When he looks into Steve’s eyes, there’s fear, something Steve hasn’t seen since he’d had pneumonia before the war and there was a good chance he wasn’t going to survive. “So, it was never going to be a good time to tell you, but...SHIELD didn’t find me. Clint did, eventually, but after I fell, well…”

And then Bucky’s talking, voice monotone, a recitation of being tortured, of being turned into a mindless lethal weapon and put in storage when not needed.

Steve just cries silently, until the very end, when he reaches out and grasps Bucky’s hand, the metal one. Because he doesn’t know what else to do.

(Once he’s out of the hospital, Coulson offers him a ride to the old secure building he woke up in, even though it’s going on two in the morning. Bucky and Barton, he knows, are shadowing him closely.

Once they’re on the road, he can’t help but ask, “Did Bucky kill him?”

“Agent Rumlow is being held in The Fridge. His injuries were...extensive, but he’s alive.”

Steve dwells on that a minute. “I can’t believe Hydra’s still around,” he mutters.

“You’re not alone in that.” Then he quirks a smile Steve has never seen before. “Want to see why Lola’s so special?”

Steve can only blink once before he hears shifting parts and a new engine startup. The next second he finds them flying through the nighttime skyline of the city. The laugh he lets out is entirely involuntary, and, he thinks, Coulson isn’t so bad after all.)

* * *

When all's said and done, when the aliens-- _aliens--_ are dead in the street and the people evacuated and the Norse god is taken by SHIELD agents, Steve, all of them, end up in some random deli serving something call shawarma. The shopkeeper is cleaning the debris with a broom and the chef is minding the stove and they’re both so calm and complacent about it that Steve can’t help but think people of the future are all _out of their minds._

Beside him, Bucky is eating off Barton--no, he can’t have stopped a world invasion and think of him as _Barton_ any more--Clint’s plate and muttering slightly excitedly about the fact that aliens are real, just like all those pulp fiction novels he used to devour. Steve would say it’s bad form, but Clint has a leg on Bucky’s chair and a vacant stare, his food untouched. It seems to be only Bucky’s words and the point of contact keeping the archer grounded.

Mind control. _Alien_ mind control. He’s sure he wouldn’t be in any better shape. He’s amazed at just how much the archer accomplished. Arrows that exploded, and he never missed. Not once. Even after days of being Loki’s puppet, and then getting beat up by Bucky. He can’t help but think the man would’ve fit right in with the Commandos.

Which has him glancing at the rest of them. Thor, Bruce, Tony. The Avengers, Fury’s team to handle global threats. Threats that include nuclear missiles launched by their supposed allies. There were times Steve wasn’t sure they could handle it, that the giant whales and purple soldiers seemed endless and that the hole in the sky would never close. And he never once thought of...of _sterilizing_ a city filled with millions of people. _Citizens._

People with no home now, people who might still need rescuing, and a city that needs rebuilding after the alien corpses are removed. A city devastated because a megalomaniacal god wanted to play conqueror. And they stopped him, him and his army and there was still so much to do.

It’s all so exhausting to think about that his eyes are half-lidded and he’s resting his face on his glove. A glove that had alien flesh and random debris all over it. Really, he should take it off, but that would take effort. He really doesn’t want to, until he remembers Coulson designed his new uniform, and then his head jerks back.

_I never signed his cards_ , he can’t help but think. He laments that, for all the awkward moments, Coulson was a good guy. And now he was dead. He looks at his glove, then carefully puts his arm down, grabbing a napkin to wipe over the glove. He could at least honor the agent by taking care of something that was obviously important to the man.

Desperate to take his mind off that, off aliens and nukes and _everything,_ he blurts out, “So Stark, when do I get to meet the family?”

His voice is more lethargic than he intended, but the abrupt stillness around the table except from Thor has him glancing to each Avenger.

Tony has a quirk of a frown on his face. “You mean my dead parents? Sure, we could swing by the family mausoleum. It’s big, not as big as my tower-”

“No, I,” he pauses, “I know, I’m sorry to hear about Howard and...Maria?” Bucky nods at him, so he keeps going. “I mean the others. Brothers or sisters.”

This time, the stillness has an atmosphere of confusion about it. “Brothers and sisters,” Tony repeats in a drawl. His lips twitch at that.

“Yeah. I mean, Howard always had a way with the dames--ladies--women.” He must be tired to try and figure out the correct current label. “When he wasn’t in the lab he was, you know,” he shrugs, embarrassingly, “taking women to have fondue.”

“Fondue.” Tony repeats again.

“Yeah.” Steve looks to his friend. “You remember, Buck, right?”

“Yeah, I remember. Fondue with every dame in the service.”

Steve squints, because Bucky’s face is too serious, like when he’s trying to pull a fast one. Then his friend, Tony, and Bruce crack up laughing.

Thor, at least, looks as confused as Steve feels. “I do not understand,” the deity finally says.

With a sigh, Steve answers, “Me either.”

Which is when Clint snaps out of whatever daze he’s in and goes, “What? What’d I miss?”

(As they walk to the SHIELD office, which miraculously survived, Bucky keeps chuckling every few minutes. Finally, Steve mutters, “How was I supposed to know.” Steve can feel his cheeks still burning.

“Never change, Stevie.” Bucky gives him a friendly clap on his back. There’s a beat, and then he adds, “Though yeah. I was surprised there’s not a ton of Stark bastards running around either.”

Steve shoves against his shoulder at that. “And you hung me out to dry! Some friend you are.”

“You betcha, buddy.”)

* * *

Phil is close to finishing the last of physical therapy when the international terrorist attack occurs, about eight months after the alien invasion. Steve has no idea what AIM is, only that they’re trying to create the super soldier serum and he’d be off taking out the Hydra spinoff if it weren’t for Bucky’s fierce glare and Phil’s firm ‘no.’  

Then Miss Potts gets kidnapped and Steve is ready to jump into a plane to help rescue her. Clint’s with him on that plan, but by the time he’s convinced his other two friends and determined her location, SHIELD reports that Iron Man has fixed the situation and oh yes, Stark and Potts will be returning to the Tower within the week.

It makes Steve think long and hard. He has to watch as Bucky and Clint are dispatched to mop up AIM safehouses and labs. Potts--”Call me Pepper, please.”--seems to be going to some doctor specializing in trauma, while Stark has late night talks with Banner that Steve oh-so-carefully does not eavesdrop on.

All of this means that when Phil gets called in for some light desk work, Steve makes a quiet call himself. He drives Phil to work, promises to take excellent care of Lola, and waves as the man enters the SHIELD office for the first time in months. Rather than drive off as Phil expects him to do, though, Steve counts down from three minutes, then heads into the building himself.

All SHIELD agents know to let him take the elevator alone now.

When he reaches the top, it’s only a few steps down the hall to his destination. He nods curtly at Agent Hill, then quietly enters Director Fury’s office. Despite the bright day, the windows are tinted dark which, despite the ceiling lights and various glowing screens, makes the room seem darker than the rest of the building.

Fury himself sits behind a large black desk, which has its own inbuilt screen, like half of the furniture in Tony’s building. He’s not wearing his black overcoat, but even without it and sitting down, the man offers an aura of menace and command that has Steve standing at parade rest out of instinct.

It’s another minute before Fury finally deigns to turn his one eye upon Steve. “So what was so important you couldn’t simply email me?”

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose. “I’m here to formally request enlistment and assignment with SHIELD’s STRIKE teams.” He looks Fury in the eye. “STRIKE Team Delta if possible, but I’m not picky.”

Fury doesn’t even blink, just offers a resounding, “Request denied,” before turning his attention to one of the screens on his desk.

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it. Of all the responses he expected, that was _not_ it. He flounders for a second before finally blurting out, “What?”

And then Fury does something that sets Steve completely on edge. The man’s hard look softens and his posture loses all tension. “Captain--Steve. SHIELD needs men like you, especially in circumstances like New York. But,” he lets out a sigh, “Phil and I talked about this. You just finished a war. Then you died, and woke up in a different time.”

Steve feels a frown slide over his face. “I’ve had months to acclimate to the future.”

“That’s right. Months. And in that time you discovered your dead friend was alive, fought off an alien invasion, and had to get used to the modern world. Not exactly relaxing.”

“And Phil thinks I need to relax?”

Fury actually snorts. “Phil thinks you should be in officer classes to make you an official Captain.” He stands up then and walks to the windows, his arms crossing behind his back. “This is my call, Rogers. Fly to Europe and see it without blood. Take a road trip across America and learn about the modern country.” The one eye catches Steve’s in the window’s reflection. “You’re needed, but not so badly you can’t take some time for yourself.”

To say Steve is dumbfounded would be an understatement. After everything that happened on the Helicarrier, the attacks from AIM and veiled hints that Hydra is still surviving, Fury is the last person he expected to think about downtime. He doubted the Director ever took time for himself, much less thought about those under him.

Then Steve mentally kicks himself, because Fury may be a hardass, but he cares for his agents as any good commander. He was just as fierce in making sure Phil was brought back as Clint and Bucky, even if he wasn’t hovering over the man when he was recovering. Of course he cares about Steve’s well being.

And as shocking as it is, Steve has to admit it’s a tempting offer.

He can’t help but ask, “Did you give Bucky the same chance?”

“Different situation.” Some of the stern tone returns to his voice. “Barnes was more adapted to the modern world, but not to public social settings.” After a beat, he adds, “He eventually crashed Barton’s vacations.”

“Could he crash mine?” Fury turns to look directly at him, and Steve can read the answer in the stern frown the man has. “Too important, right?”

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. And Strike Team Delta is one of the best.”

Steve nods once, then looks out the window himself. The skyline is still ruined. The whales are gone, but there’s so much construction and rebuilding that the new New York he’s gotten used to seeing is still wrong. Wrong because people want to recreate what made him and damn the collateral damage. Wrong because it wouldn’t be hard for it to happen again with how thin SHIELD is spread. Wrong because they’re asking Steve to sit back and not even help rebuild or help protect his home.

Wrong because Bucky’s out there without Steve to watch his back.

Finally, he shakes his head. “I can’t, sir.” When he looks up, he gives Fury as commanding a look as he can. “I will not...freeload and relax when the nation’s at risk and my friends are fighting to protect it. If you won’t take me, I’m sure the army will be happy to reinstate my status.”

Fury doesn’t look surprised, but he does let out a huff. “Hate it when Cheese is right,” he mutters. Steve has no idea what that means, but Fury moves to stand behind his desk again. This time, he places his fingers against the surface and stares Steve down. “A compromise, then. I’ll put you on Ops and Tactical. Limited deployment. You’ll be learning the command side of things, and still have most evenings and weekends to take time for yourself.”

There’s a part of him screaming that it’s too light. “I’m the perfect soldier,” he pushes back.

“Physically. As Barnes put it, you take the stupid with you. This will teach you modern strategy and tactics while updating your knowledge of the global political situation. We’ll revisit in twelve months or when the AIM situation is resolved, whichever is first.” When Steve starts to argue again Nury points sternly at him. “Take it or leave it, Captain. And don’t think I can’t blacklist you from the army, either.”

Steve purses his lips, but decides if this is all he can get, he’ll take it. “Agreed.”

Fury nods. “Good. Go see Agent May on the eleventh floor to get the paperwork processed.”

Steve about faces and marches out of the room. He can feel Fury’s gaze on him the entire time.

(Agent May is abrupt and economical with her words, but when Phil retrieves him hours later, they smile at each other like old friends. “We used to work together,” Phil offers as they leave.

Steve knows by now that vague statements like that are not meant to be clarified, so instead he focuses on the bottle of scotch the man’s holding instead. “Where’d you get that?”

“Nick. I told him you wouldn’t take the offer.”

“You bet I wouldn’t take it?” He’s not sure whether to be amused or offended. Then he can’t help but ask, “So why even try?”

Phil stops outside the elevator and looks at him. There’s something about the eyes that speaks to Steve of world weariness and lost opportunities. With a melancholy smile, he answers, “This job becomes your life. You’ve already given that once.” He looks away. “And in his own way, he idolizes you.”

“So he was trying to protect Captain America.”

Phil shakes his head. “Captain America is a soldier. Steve Rogers, he’s an idol.”

Steve grimances. “Steve Rogers is just a guy trying to do the right thing.”

Phil gives him a brief grin. “Exactly.”)

* * *

Almost a year after the Invasion of New York, Steve finds himself, Bucky, and Phil in Washington DC for a rededication of his Smithsonian exhibition. There’s a big part of him that doesn’t want to be there, but Phil tells him Bucky once stole from them and SHIELD owes the curator as a result. When Steve finds out _what_ was stolen, he ends up huddling next to his best friend the entire flight down, which Bucky grouses about, but leans into so Steve knows he doesn’t mean it.

He’s standing beside the small stage that he’ll be giving a speech on in only a few more minutes. He has no idea what to say, and is debating asking Phil for the speech he knows the man has prepared, because Phil always has their backs. Just as he decides he will speak to Phil, he catches sight of Bucky across the room suddenly stiffening up and looking worriedly in his direction. Steve frowns, because it wouldn’t be unheard of to have hostiles here, but with so many civilians and cameras around…

“Well, Rogers. I believe you owe me a dance.”

The woman’s voice is elderly, but the accent and warm strength behind the words shake him to his core. He turns around slowly, looking down into a wheelchair of a woman with a face that still haunts his dreams. Her hair is long, curly, and grey, framing a face with a million wrinkles and unpainted lips. But the eyes are still the sharp, penetrating brown he remembers, and even sitting in a chair she holds herself with lethal regality.

“Peggy,” escapes from his throat, and then his knees give out and he’s lucky enough to land solidly on the edge of the stage. His eyes are tearing up even as he reaches out to cup her face, though he can’t quite bring himself to touch her, leaving his fingers hanging a mere whisper from her skin.

Absently, he notes Bucky has come up beside him, using his body to block Steve’s breakdown from the assembled crowd. Phil is beside him as well, and cooly says, “Agent 13. I wasn’t aware you were here.”

It’s not Peggy that answers, but a young blond woman who’s looks are so similar to image of the Peggy he remembers. “Agent Coulson. It was sort of...spur of the moment.”

“I can still make my own decisions on how to spend the day, young man,” Peggy chastises Phil with a sharp glare.

“I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t.” It’s the first time Steve’s heard Phil be so deferential. “However, with some warning, we might have been able to have this reunion be a little more private.”

“Yes.” Peggy’s voice is softer as her gaze returns to Steve. “I didn’t think… I’d forgotten he was back.”

The woman, Agent 13, makes a soft noise at that, but Steve ignores it, finally lowering his hand to clasp the wrinkled one resting in Peggy’s lap. “I’m so sorry I…that I missed our date.” He’s crying, he’s crying in front of a hundred people and television cameras and he doesn’t give a damn because his best girl is _here_ , and she’s...she’s lived a whole life without him.

“You did the right thing, Steve.” Her other hand covers his, still strong despite her age. “I’m only glad I was able to see you again.” He sniffs at that, and she says, “Come here, already.” He falls onto her chair, half hugging and half collapsed on her, sobbing as she strokes his hair gently.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually he feels a familiar calloused hand on his back that says, “Come on, Stevie. Give the dame some breathing room.”

He doesn’t want to, but eventually acquiesces to lean away and wipe his eyes with the back of his palm. When he takes in the room, he finds they’re alone, just him, Bucky, and Peggy. Phil and Agent 13 have moved to the main doors, but the crowd, the cameras, they’re all gone.

“Barnes,” Peggy says.

“Ma’am.”

There’s a level of formality there, one Steve could try to interpret but right now he doesn’t want to focus on it. Instead he sniffs one last time, and says, “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, tosh,” she scoffs, but her cheeks flush red at his words. “And you’re still a lout. You should’ve called.”

“I would’ve. I mean, there was some trouble with Hydra-”

“Hydra?” Her gaze snaps to Bucky, who holds up his hands.

“Sleeper agent. We got ‘im.”

She scowls, which is just as frightening as Steve remembers, but he catches her attention again by stroking her hand, and she eyes him over, as if looking for any injury like she used to. “I still can’t dance but, maybe we could still go on our date? I, I haven’t seen any of the exhibits.”

She laughs lightly and smiles at him. “Such a charmer. Showing me your own history.” Her eyes twinkle, and she leans forward to kiss him on the cheek. She laughs again as his own face heats up. “All right, Rogers.” She nods to the back of her chair. “Get pushing.”

He does. He sees his life as told by Coulson through the Smithsonian, and he adds little asides that make Peggy keep laughing. Bucky, he notices, keeps a good ten feet distance as a shadow, not taking part, but not leaving them alone, either. For the first twenty minutes, they keep it light and superficial. Then, they get to the last radio transmission he made and his smile slides from his face.

Finally, he swallows and asks, “Did you...was there anyone you…”

“Yes, Steve. You saved him, actually.” She points ahead, where a small display of her biography and movie is playing. “He gave me two beautiful children. We were very happy.”

He glances towards the door. “Is that…?”

“My niece, Sharon.” She’s quiet for a minute, then reaches back to take his hand. “I never stopped loving you,” she whispers.

He fears tears prick at his eyes again, and quickly swipes them away. “I’ll visit. I promise, I’ll visit.”

She sighs. “I should tell you to let me go.” She watches a video of him punching out Hitler. “If I were stronger,” she continues, still soft, “I would insist.”

“I will, but...but please. Just...for a little while?”

The smile reflecting in the glass is bittersweet. “A little while.” Her shoulders shake. “What woman doesn’t like having a handsome young gentleman caller?”

This time, he bends down to kiss her on the cheek. They don’t talk any more after that. They finish the date with touches and silence.

It’s both the best and worst day he’s had since waking up.

(“I didn’t imagine it,” Steve says quietly, when he and Bucky are alone in their shared hotel room. “She was cold towards you.”

Bucky runs a hand through his long hair, avoiding Steve’s gaze. It takes a few minutes before the man holds up his metallic arm, fingers clenched in a fist.

Steve swallows. He knows what that means by now. “Who?” Bucky just shakes his head. Steve wants to get closer, but he knows that wouldn’t be welcome just now. Instead, he reiterates, “Who?”

There’s a protracted silence, and then Bucky drops his arm suddenly. “It’s not your burden,” he says in a guttural tone. A glare peeks out from beneath his eyelashes. “Captain.”

Steve hides the flinch, and drops the matter. For now, at least.)

* * *

He surprises everyone the next week, when they’ve gathered at the Avenger’s tower to confirm the team member’s schedules over dinner. When there’s a lull in the conversation, he glances at the group then says, “So, um, I’m moving to Washington DC.”

There’s a stunned silence, but he can see Phil get it immediately. He was there in DC as well, plus Steve knows that deep down, Phil is a romantic. It’s a tragic romance, but between his admiration of Captain America and being his friend, Steve knew he could count on the agent. “I’ll put in the transfer request to the DC Headquarters tomorrow.”

“Wait, what? No.” Tony looks between him and Phil, then looks up and a brief smile graces his face before it goes blank. “Oh, right. Huh. Well, I have a penthouse?”

Steve hides the grimace. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Banner just shrugs at him while Clint tilts his head, examining Steve with unusual intensity before shrugging as well.

Steve then turns his head to the seat beside him. He doesn’t want to lose his friend over this, but it’s something he _has_ to do. Bucky, though, is grinning, and leans over to bump their shoulders together.  “It’s fine, punk. Good to see you going after the girl.”

Steve can’t stop himself from saying, “Sure you don’t want to go with me? Do the bachelor thing again?”

“I got too many things in New York, but I’ll visit, promise.” Bucky glances down then. “Plus DC and I...let’s just say the Soldier doesn’t have fond memories.”

Steve swallows, but eventually nods. “I’ll miss you.”

Bucky smirks. “Naw. I’ll make sure you see my ugly mug often enough.”

And that’s all it takes. Over the weekend, Steve and his meager possessions are flown down and he’s set up in an apartment considered safe enough by SHIELD for him to inhabit. He unpacks, then opens the folder Phil handed him on his way out the door. It’s Peggy’s SHIELD file. He wants to hear the stories from her himself, but there’s a post-it note telling him to read one of the last pages first.

Steve cries when he discovers what Alzheimer’s disease is. It also makes him even more determined to make every moment count, and he’s grateful, so grateful, that Fury gave him a job that keeps him mostly here, where he has the opportunity to see her every chance he can.

Working for SHIELD in DC is different than New York. The office is bigger, the view is more picturesque, and Clint and Bucky don’t try to drive everyone nuts with their shenanigans. There’s also less hero worship of Captain America and fewer agents that realize just who he is. It gives him a modicum of freedom and mobility that he really appreciates.

There are more missions he helps coordinate, but fewer that actually require his presence in the field. It takes him weeks to relax in the presence of all the SHIELD agents, his memory of Rumlow still sharp. He wants to believe Hydra is rooted out, but Bucky is out on missions too often for him to believe it entirely and let his guard down completely at work.

Still, it allows him to easily see Peggy about twice a week, plus most weekends. She’s in a fancy retirement home with at least twenty active agents from various agencies, and fifty retired agents, some that apparently used to work against him during the war. On her good days, some of them and Peggy spar verbally while he watches, and though they were enemies once, Steve can hear the respect they have for each other.

It’s amazing and he can’t help but regale Bucky about some of the more outrageous debates. His best friend is constantly flying down when he can, to help Steve catch up on the list of cultural references he’s made. It keeps them indoors a lot of the time, which is good since Bucky is usually tired from some recent mission. Occasionally his neighbor, Sharon Carter aka Agent 13, stops by when Bucky’s down. She flirts with Steve a bit, but it’s awkward since he’s still in love with Peggy. Then Bucky starts flirting back and they aren’t dating, but Steve is pretty sure they have a bet going on to see who can make him stammer or blush the most with their antics.

He still has difficulty sleeping, sometimes because the bed feels wrong, sometimes because Peggy had a bad day, sometimes because of the tension from being around SHIELD agents. So he takes to running in the early hours of the morning. He takes a lot of different routes, but eventually he settles around the World War II memorial, circling it entirely ten, twelve times a morning.

There’s black man he sees often in the first part of his morning run, and Steve can’t help but taunt him by shouting, “On your left!” One day, the man responds with, “Don’t say it. Don’t you say it!” and replies with “Come on, man!” when Steve says it anyways. And then the race is on.

It’s a short race.

Steve’s barely out of breath while the stranger is huffing and puffing, and introduces himself as Sam Wilson, a war vet with a sharp wit that reminds Steve of Bucky in some ways. It’s only a five minute conversation, but somehow it pierces through the veil of loneliness Steve’s felt since coming to DC, and before he knows it he has a new friend.

Sam wants to help him catch up on culture, but he also wants to Steve to _live_ a little. When Bucky isn’t in town, Sam drags him out to experience the nightlife of DC. They talk about everything. Sam mentions Riley, and what it was like to be in the Air Force, and what crazy thing some of his fellow employees get up to.

Steve tries to keep to light topics, but it doesn’t take much, and soon he’s sharing his regrets and pain about Peggy, about the feeling of despair of how everything’s changed, of everything he’s lost. Of not being able to sleep some nights and the bed being stranger than some dirt and a jacket.

Sam’s invited him to VA meetings before, always a simple invitation, off-handed, not pushing Steve into anything. Then, about two months in, when Steve’s lamenting the time lost because of the war--not just the ice, but the actual _war_ \--that Sam interrupts him with a different approach.

“You know,” Sam says quietly, “you’re not alone. Even if you don’t speak, coming to a meeting might help.”

“They’re people who need help, Sam. I don’t want to detract from that. And my very presence-”

“Bullshit.” He holds up his hand before Steve comments on his language. “You are _the_ veteran of the armed forces. There isn’t a man or woman who would treat you any different than they would their fellow soldier.”

“But I don’t have Post-Traumatic...um,”

“PTSD.” Sam just gives him a level look that has Steve squirming in his seat after less than a minute. “Do I really need to say bull-”

“Fine. One meeting.”

They don’t talk about it again, but Sam sends him a text about the next meeting, and Steve attends. And Sam was right. There’s some looks, but most of them ignore him, or nod briefly but don’t engage him. Here, he _is_ just another soldier. At first, that’s enough, and one meeting becomes two, becomes four, becomes a regular weekly appointment.

He’s _not_ alone, and it’s such a surprise, even though Sam told him that over and over. Sure, there’s Bucky, but Steve had never thought current soldiers would be going through the same things he’s suffering from. There’s even some vets that remember him from WWII, that are _from_ WWII still recovering, still reeling, because for decades there wasn’t a label for what they had or a way to help their suffering.

It’s the most cathartic thing to ever happen to him. When he mentions it to Bucky, he gets an awkward shrug in reply. “I tried it, but what happened to me…” He grimaces. “Clint’s better therapy.”

Steve bumps their shoulders together. “I’m glad.” He waits a beat. “I’m just still so shocked that anyone else feels like me. Us.”

“Yeah. World’s messed up.” Which Steve can’t help but snort at.

All of that leads Steve to realize one morning that, while it isn’t Brooklyn, DC has become home. And maybe, just maybe, he’s finally beginning to settle into this time.

(There’s a red haired woman in their usual group that’s been attending almost as long as Steve, and remained just as silent. He doesn’t know if it’s that similarity, or something else, but one day after everyone’s left he stands awkwardly by the coffee dispenser and says, “So, I may be out of line but,” he shrugs a shoulder, “you want to grab some coffee?”

Like a marionette, she turns her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes are lidded and dark, and Steve flushes. “Just, you don’t really talk, and I thought...maybe you’d like someone to listen? Just...one-on-one?” Maybe this isn’t a good idea. He’s seen Sam make this offer a dozen times, but Sam is smooth and cool and friendly, and Steve can’t help the awkwardness in his tone or the easy blush that crawls across his face.

After a long moment her lips twitch into a grin and she laughs. Not harshly or mockingly, just someone unused to laughing, and Steve feels the blush cover his entire face and down his neck. Finally, though, she nods. “Sure. If you buy me a scone.”

Steve smiles awkwardly. “How about two? Just for the hell of it.”

“Oh,” she gets up and slides her arm around his, “I’m going to like you.” Her eyes seem to stare into his soul when she says, “My name’s Natasha.”)

**Author's Note:**

> You can now follow me on tumblr @ cypherca.tumblr.com for updates on fics and original works.


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